


Truth Isn't Sweet, Silence Isn't Golden

by Seiberwing



Category: Gyakuten Kenji | Ace Attorney Investigations: Miles Edgeworth, Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Gags, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seiberwing/pseuds/Seiberwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Badd wants some peace and quiet to think about a case. Faraday wants something more exciting. A compromise is found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Isn't Sweet, Silence Isn't Golden

Being a lawyer in the city-state of Japanifornia was much like being a moneyed lord in England. Eccentricity wasn't so much allowed as expected and if you didn't act a bit odd up front everyone else would wonder what dark secret you were hiding. Faraday came off relatively normal compared to von Karma and his perfection fixation, or Payne and his toupee, or Tatami and his insistence on bringing one of his little yappy dogs into the courtroom for every trial he prosecuted, but he had his moments. When he was angry the entire building knew about it, when he was amused he could be as bad as Yew, and when he was playful he wasn't very attentive to anyone else having better things to do.

"Come fuck me," Faraday said, resting one elbow on Badd's shoulder and leaning down to whisper in his ear.

Most people might react with shock, or insist that this was a public place, or question the prosecutor's mental and/or moral stability. Badd had long developed a sense of resigned tolerance for Faraday's passionate nature and simply removed his arm with a shrug of his massive shoulders.

"I'm busy. We can do it later."

Faraday stepped behind Badd, blocking his light. "It can't be more interesting than me,” he said with a dismissive toss of his head.

Badd shifted the folder he was holding, showing off a set of eight by ten color glossies with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining that the forensic team had no idea what was going on either. "Pretty sure it can be," he grumbled.

Faraday tilted his head to one side, eyes widening slightly. "That is...an impressive blood spatter pattern. I'm not even sure that’s possible with stab wounds."

"It's not. That's why I don't have time to deal with you." Badd nudged him away, only to have the friendly elbow return like a fly to a delicious steak.

"Come on. There's a couch in the second floor restroom, I can lock it and put the cleaning sign up on the door. Total privacy."

"The men's bathroom doesn't have a couch in it."

"The women's does."

"I'm not having sex with—” Badd paused. “What were you even doing in the women's restroom?"

"Looking for a couch." Faraday said it as if breaking socially-enforced gender boundaries in the pursuit of comfortable horizontal spaces was the most natural thing in the world.

Badd flipped past the eight by ten color glossies with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one to the listings for the victims' closest contacts, making small notes in the margins with a well-gnawed pencil stub. "Will you be quiet enough to let me think?"

"I'll do my best."

Enough time spent on homicide made one used to lurking in women's restrooms, due to how many dead women (and occasionally men) seemed to end up in them. They were always nicer than the men's no matter the location, and above a certain income level consistently had a soft couch and basket of fake flowers on an end table. Faraday stuck the 'being cleaned, please use downstairs restroom' sight on the doorhandle and flicked the door lock shut. He spread himself across the couch with a happy smile, to which Badd rebutted that this was a personal favor and Faraday could get his own pants down.

Badd didn't smile. He almost never smiled, except in his most unguarded moments or when he wanted to intimidate someone with a bad cop's cruel smirk. But there were subtle shifts in his expression, indications of his body language, tells you'd only understand if you'd spent enough time around the man to know him inside out, that said he was irritated but hardly uninterested.

Still, Faraday found it a little insulting that Badd didn't even bother taking his trenchcoat off before crouching over him, and giving the prosecutor's pockets a quick patdown for the little tube he knew was in there.

“Ngh…” A satisfied groan slipped into an annoyed one. “You’re not even trying, Tyrell,” Faraday complained.

“Shut up, Byrne.”

“I could do better with my hands.”

“Maybe you should.”

Badd was almost mechanical in his motions, not particularly gentle but it wasn't that intimate sort of roughness that Faraday appreciated from him. When the sex were boring enough that Faraday was idly wondering if that shiny object stuck in the folds of the couch was a quarter or a nickel, direct action was desperately required.

"Oh god, Tyrell, fuck, do it to me..." Faraday moaned, tossing his head back dramatically, lifting his hips and moving with all the enthusiasm Badd lacked

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Badd gave him a particular hard thrust to match his snarl and Faraday's next groan was far more authentic. That was more like it.

"Just can't help it, you’re sooo good. Harder...faster...um..." Faraday licked his lips and tried to remember more cliché porn phrases. "Come on, please, fuck me, oh—mmph!" Badd's rough hand clamped down over his mouth and forced him down into the couch cushion, nearly smothering him. Faraday struggled only out of reflex and his hands clenched against Badd's shoulder to show that yes, oh god did he want this. A stifled cry slipped out between the detective’s thick fingers and Badd pressed him deeper into the cushion.

“Shut. Up.”

Bereft of voice and mobility, all Faraday could do was clench his hands against the couch edge and stare upward. Badd’s eyes were closed, his lips twitched as he rocked against the man below him. Faraday wondered if the detective was even thinking of him, but it was almost sweet to simply look at Badd and listen to his harsh, forced breathing. Badd finished with a barely audible grunt and only the slightest relaxing of his body. He shifted back and refastened his pants one-handedly before finally releasing Faraday’s mouth.

“Happy?” he asked, turning away with a disgruntled ruffle of his coat.

“Ridiculously,” Faraday answered weakly, chest heaving. Oh, yes. Definitely needed to find some way of conning Badd into that again.

“Hrm.” Badd picked the case file back up again and made a small note on the front, back to work as if he'd never left his desk. "Need to pull their medical records," he murmured to himself.

"Whose what?”

"I need to find out where the victims were treated. They were all carrying the same thing according to the autopsy reports, we figured a personal connection but it's possible it was someone who just knew what they had and decided to go all vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm good for thinking?" Faraday put a hand behind his head and looked as smug as his pleasure-drained body would allow.

"Only in this particular case." Badd smiled, a bad cop's cruel smirk. "All the victims were carrying syphilis."


End file.
